


October

by General_Button, kenopsia (indie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Boning, Don't look for plot, Fluff, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega!Sherlock, PWP, there is none
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button, https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with an omega that isn't Sherlock in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock is not happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	October

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with a lovely lady, even though I DID ALL THE WORK. But really, Katie (kenopsia) did everything. That prose you're reading? Her. I just made John pop a knot once or twice. 
> 
> Note that we decided not to tag dubious consent, because although it isn't explicitly stated, Sherlock was consenting when he had more than enough of his mind in the right place.

Sherlock had this way of starting non-sequitur sentences like they made sense in the current conversation. Or, in instances like this one, the companionable silence of the living room. “Alphas. If it can be knotted; consider it done. You remember that woman on the street,” he added, voice layered with sneering disgust. “You were drooling all over her shoes! I think we should invest in a muzzle.”

It took John a minute to realise what was going on. _Oh, not this again_. He was half amused and half concerned; for some reason, Sherlock despite his vast knowledge believed all alphas to be stereotypical brutes. John mentioned his brother in retort, but of course: _John, don’t be stupid. Mycroft isn’t like normal people_.

“That’s rich,” John said, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea. Ugh. “Like you haven’t spread your pheromones all around like marmalade to get what you want. You’re not some omega saint.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, John. You see, I do it on _purpose_. Alphas are so consumed by their need that they might as well be lobotomized every time a fertile human passes under their nose!”

John stood, feeling a little angry again, and set his cup aside. He brushed past Sherlock and set the kettle to boil. Tea always helped him calm down—especially in regards to his enigmatic, completely frustrating omega flatmate.

“This is still about the woman, isn’t it,” John said, realisation dawning as he took out a packet of Earl Grey. “You’re _still_ angry that I put her in your bed.”

“It’s not about her!” Sherlock exploded. He bit into his cheek. “Anyway, some bitterness is allowed. You let some woman _in heat_ come into our flat without even a word of warning.”

“How would I have warned you?!” John said, voice growing loud. Apparently, the only way to communicate with Sherlock was to shout at him. “Pardon me for trying to do my part to keep rape from happening to strangers. What am I supposed to do?” He shook his fist at the open doorway. Sherlock knew the best way to rip his control right out the window. “Chuck her out without so much as a bloody by-your-leave?”

He paused, attempting to control himself. It certainly didn’t give him a leg to stand on in the argument if Sherlock could so easily press his buttons and make him just like the knot-headed alpha stereotype he hated. “If I had found out someone—some _stranger_ , had done that to you, they’d be six feet under and full of lead in an hour.”

“Thank you for consideration, but I do know how to fight my way out of a situation. Even when I’m being coerced by the eloquence of alphas in rut.” John winced. In the context of a consensual relationship, it was almost funny how base an alpha could get, spouting machismo bullshit on some kind of ridiculous loop, but it was an entirely different animal when it was a stranger telling a passing omega, smelling of heat: _you’d look so good stretched around my knot._

But not all alphas were like that. “You’re wrong, Sherlock. You’re just—wrong. I’m sorry that I wanted to help someone in need without acting like the people you hate! I honestly don’t know why you’re upset about this. Is it some kind of territorial thing? As a matter of fact,” he added after a pause, “instead of turning on your heel when you saw her, shouldn’t you have done something in omega solidarity?”

“I don’t care about other omegas,” Sherlock spat. “She should have known about her own heat; it’s not my job to do anything for someone who ignores their own body’s signals.” He ripped the kettle off of the stove and stormed to the sink, pouring the scalding water down the drain, ignoring John’s cry of protest.

John clenched his fists and shook his head, looking at Sherlock with a mixture of anger and pity. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but I know that’s not true. You have always cared about omegas in need more than anyone else. Hell, you nearly broke an alpha woman’s arm for touching a man who’d been assaulted on a case. Don’t play this game of ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes and I don’t care about anyone but myself’.”

John stalked towards the door, intent on walking off some steam. Just before to reached for the doorknob, he stopped and looked back at Sherlock, who had moved onto the sofa and was pretending he wasn’t paying attention to John. “I know you’re better than that. I know _you_ better than that.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to respond.  

* * *

For several weeks following the incident with the omega woman, there was a particular tension between them. It was strange and new; alien to their relationship before then. Sherlock had always been vocal about his distaste for the alpha hierarchy, but it hadn’t really been a bane to their friendship: he understood John, and in turn, John tried not to fantasize about him too much. Really, it was win-win.

Sherlock’s reaction was so unexpected to John that it hadn’t even occurred to him that it was the source of all underlying tension until they’d had several screaming rows about it.  It wasn’t even like when Sherlock was nasty to John’s girlfriends because they claimed too much of his time. She was just someone who happened to go into heat, and John, trying to be a decent bloke, took her somewhere safe. John had assumed Sherlock would feel the same, and for some reason, he was dead wrong. Sherlock hadn’t just been bothered about it when it happened: Sherlock had been furious, and continued to be generally on edge.

John was getting desperate. Sherlock wasn’t his omega—he had made that very clear early on—but that didn’t mean that John didn’t feel that there was a sort of _something_ between them. Something inexplicable that made it possible for the two of them to work as they did. By unspoken agreement, they both pretended that John wasn’t arse-over-teakettle for Sherlock.

“Fuck,” he said quietly. He hadn’t had patients all day and he was so incredibly bored. Usually Sherlock kept him entertained with texts throughout the day. He checked his phone: nothing. “Fuck.”  Maybe he could do it like this.

 _I’m sorry I was an arse, but no solutions presented themselves to me in the time I had to act._ He sent it and then tried to focus on paperwork, something he had been seriously neglecting his entire time working this job. Sarah was a saint. Only minutes in he received a text.

_I don’t care about your notions of chivalry. You could have had her stay somewhere else. The hospital; a center. You could have easily found her home rather than take her to ours. SH_

_Sherlock, I had no idea that having another omega in the flat would set off some territorial instinct. I mean, it’s not like you’re interested. But it will never happen again if it makes us fight like this. I’ll call someone._ As an afterthought, he added, _Where are u? Hanging out w/ your homeless network?_

His heart was pounding, for some reason. John had been feeling rather off in the last few days. More antsy and protective of Sherlock. Not that there had been one around to protect. He’d been gone for days.

He jumped when his phone chimed again, so he put it on silent. The text was only from Mike, asking about pints for Friday. Damn.

On impulse, he sent another. _Where have you been? Time to come home?_

For an hour John was distracted by actual work. He saw a few patients and got more paperwork done, refusing to look at his phone for another forty-five minutes, gut churning the whole time. When he did, he wanted to smack Sherlock. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did they really have to do this?

_Why are you interested in my whereabouts? SH_

_I don’t know why you’re being so difficult, and dead tired of having this fight. I did exactly what I’d do for you: lined up glasses of water and then evacuated to a respectful distance. Hell, I don’t even date anymore because even though you don’t want me, by god no one else should._

Why was he saying this? Why did he send that? John put his head into his hands, cursing whatever weird hormones had made him decide that it was acceptable to sound like a schoolgirl. He was humiliated by his own instability, and still, feeling delicate enough that he had to keep slanting his gaze through his fingers for quick peeks at his phone every few seconds.

_Why don’t you deduce it, John? I don’t know where you got that idea, or how any alpha can be so comparably blind. SH_

Was Sherlock saying what he thought he was saying? John bit his lip, setting paperwork aside to focus on texting. His heart was pounding.

_Being your colleague does not make me your possession, Sherlock. I’m not a microscope you can expect to stay where you leave me! You have to...fish or cut bait, as the expression goes._

_Boring!_ was Sherlock’s response. Typical. Then John got a second text, one that said: _I’m not spelling it out for you. I’ve been leaving hints for weeks. SH_

Hints? What hints?! Was insulting your flatmate a hint

 _You were explicitly, violently clear in the beginning that all interest would be grossly unwelcome. I’ve been doing my best to respect that_.

 _Things change_. _SH_

His heart was about to burst out of his chest. Texting was a horrible way to start a relationship, if this could be considered one, but it might actually work. Oh, God. He had to stop and stare at the wall for a bit to calm himself down. This was _Sherlock_. Brilliant, enigmatic, beautiful omega extraordinaire. And his flatmate.

 _Fine. if you’re just trying to humiliate me, our friendship will never recover. I just want to be very, very clear._ _Shall I ask?_

He sent it, and now he just had to wait. John tapped his pen against the tabletop, counting down the seconds until his phone’s screen lit up.

 _Ask_. _SH_

John typed with shaking fingers.

_I’m attracted to you, entirely separate from quarterly biological desire to put my nose into your pulse point. Is that...reciprocal?_

Sherlock’s answer, moments later, made his mouth dry.

_Most alphas don’t bother with respect. No; I can hear you arguing. They don’t. But you are unlike most alphas, which is why I have found you...suitable._

That was so much like Sherlock that it was a relief. John smiled at the screen and began pecking at the keys, more eager than ever to have the day over already.

_What a ringing endorsement :-)_

_you know I don’t often do these things SH_

Weird for Sherlock not to have perfect grammar, even in text. But John didn’t really question it, continuing to text his flatmate.

_I know, Sherlock. But you know me well enough to know that I don’t want to wonder if you just think you’re attracted to me because your brain doesn’t know what to do with the basic human decency that should be background noise._

Feeling ridiculous, and maybe insane, he added more. Something he didn’t know if he could say to his face: _I want you to want me to suck on your hipbones and wash your hair. If you just want me to continue to make you tea and stand guard during your heat, I will do that. You don’t have to offer more to keep my friendship._

The next text he received seconds later. It’s message was strange and so unlike Sherlock, that John began to wonder what was going on with him, doubt creeping in at his seams.

_i know what i want SH_

_Sherlock?_

_meet at home pls. heat. SH_

Cold, icy dread filled John’s chest. What had seemed like a promising relationship was suddenly doused by the reality of the situation. Sherlock was in heat. Oh God.

_If you’ve been under the influence, then none of these messages have been consent. Look, I’m going to stay at Mike’s and have your brother pick you up. Where the hell are you?_

Sherlock’s answer was maddeningly, painfully slow to arrive. John began to pack up his things, ready to call after another minute from no word from Sherlock. He was just afraid that once he answered the phone he wouldn’t be able to put it down. Just hearing that deep, sultry voice mid-heat…

Best not think about it. He checked his phone when it chimed, reading it with trepidation.

_No John please. I need you. Please come home. I’m at home. SH_

Proper grammar now. It was pathetic how John could now see that Sherlock had been losing himself this entire conversation. The short answers; the strange things he would never have said before. He was probably at home, like he’d said, touching himself. Desperate with need… “ _Fuck_.” he spat, at the universe for giving him his wildest dream wrapped in his best friend’s nightmare. Everything about the situation was impossible.

 _“_ John?” Sarah peeked around the corner, as if she’d sensed his distress. “Everything all right?”

“God, no. Fucking hell. I’m sorry Sarah.” Shaking his head, he gestured to his phone. “I’ve got to— Sherlock’s in heat.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Best get to it. And congratulations!”

John wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that, that it wouldn’t be like that, but he just nodded and prayed that Sherlock didn’t do anything reckless. After checking his phone, he could see Sherlock sent him three more texts.

_want an alpha. But not someone normal. I want you. Big, strong. Handsome. I always liked how you were shorter than me. SH_

_Come home SH_

_Please. SH_

And then came a fourth one. It was a sound clip. When John pressed play, he really wished he hadn’t. Christ. He was instantly hard, all seventeen mewling seconds imprinted on his memory forever.

_Sherlock, stop this. You don’t really want this._

_I know what I want! I was coherent for most of this conversation. John please come home. Please. I need you. SH_

_Please SH_

_Please SH_

_Please SH_

God, that was just like Sherlock. To ignore everything John stood for...everything he hoped to accomplish as Sherlock’s flatmate. He just took and demanded, expecting John to kip at his heels like a good little dog. Why would this be any different? He didn’t _want_ it to be different, truth be told.

For a long time, John didn’t answer. When he did, Sherlock had sent him another voice message and four more texts.

John typed his response very, very carefully, and with a deep grimace. _If you hate me next three days from now, I want you to read this. I want you to know that I will put all of this away and never mention it again if this conversation is something you want to pretend never happened. And that I’m sorry._

Sherlock’s response was a feeble, _are you coming home? SH_

John pressed the heel of his palm against his cock, which pressed firmly against the tight line of his trousers. He received another text.

_Please. SH_

Pressing the phone to his ear, John waited until he heard the resounding click before speaking. “Is there…” his voice broke, hoarse. “Is there some kind of pre-heat contraceptive you can take? Or should I stop for one?” He heard Sherlock’s breath catch.

“You’re coming home?” He sounded relieved. Wrecked.

“Yes. I can’t move at the speed of sound, Sherlock.” God help him. “I’ve never been able to tell you no. Seems impossible to start now.” He chuckled. “Do you want me to pick up pills or do you them?”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock sounded completely out of it. “Just come home. You’re coming home, right?”

“You don’t care this second, but there is no way in hell I’m having you wring my neck ‘till next week because I listened to you about wanting to be bred while you were in heat.” No matter how...amazing it sounded. “Hell, you could put me in jail for that.”

John stepped out of the cab the moment he reached Tescos, and he quickly made his way in, still on the phone. He could hear Sherlock panting, rustling the sheets with his movements. “I’m stopping by Tescos. ETA fifteen minutes.” Hopefully less. Sherlock just whined and something wet sounded closer to the phone. “We can talk about...the other thing when you’re sober.”

* * *

“Sherlock, come unlatch the door.” He only received a moan in response. He really should have texted. At this rate, John was going to pop a knot before he got inside. “Come on Sherlock,” he groused, trying to sound stern and not ridiculously aroused. “If you can make it to the door I’ll lug you back up.”

“Break it,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible over the sound of his panting. “I want to see you break it.” He then proceeded to moan. John slammed his fist against the door, regretting it instantly. Was Mrs. Hudson home?

“Unlock the door and I’ll give you fifteen seconds to lock the door to your room.” If he could hold on that long without touching Sherlock. Tasting him. Breeding him.

“Key, key!” Sherlock shouted. “You idiot! Key under the dumpster in the back. Hurry up!”

John’s legs wouldn’t move fast enough. He would side-eye Sherlock’s questionable hiding places once he’d thoroughly fucked him and buried his cock in that sweet arse.

“I’ll knock that one down with my cock,” John joked, trying to occupy himself as he grabbed the key from the dirty ground.

“Okay. Yes.” More wet sounds. John groaned and shoved the key into the doorway. When the scent hit him, he had to lean against the wall. _Fuck_. Was this why Sherlock had gone? Had he really been planning this?

Was this the right thing to do?

No time for questions, John supposed. He had a flatmate to fuck. Making his way up the stairs, John slammed the key into the door, throwing his shoes, coat, and belt by the door. He could hear Sherlock through both the phone and the flat, which reminded him to throw his phone in any random direction and head towards his prize. Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Going to need you to clear the doorway."

Sherlock’s head perked up from his position on the bed. "Oh, are you going to kick it down?” He sounded breathless with excitement. His alpha was going to show a feat of strength in order to impress him. “Do it. I'm on the bed. I'm ready."

When John slammed against it with his smaller but not insignificant mass, once, twice, it tumbled from the frame with a crack.

Abuzz with pleasant pheromones, Sherlock stared at John with unabashed want. He was beautiful like this; noteworthy and strong. Good alpha. Perfect alpha. Sherlock wanted his cock in him. "That was brilliant," he gushed. "I mean, passable. Can I suck your cock? No--wait. Yes. No. I want it."

At that, John’s heart abruptly took a three second hiatus as Sherlock's words wrapped themselves like a hot, damp ribbon around his dick. "You can have whatever you like, for as long as you like it. But first," he said, fishing in his own pocket for three pills he'd already separated from the bottles he'd purchased on his detour, "Paracetamol and a pre-heat."

"I don't want it," Sherlock replied stubbornly. "I might— maybe I want. That. Don't you?" He racked his mind for stereotypical phrases most often found in John’s porn collection. "Don't you want to fill me up? Mm." On a roll, he rubbed himself between his legs, going cross eyed with pleasure. "Make me round and fat, full with children? Maybe an entire litter." He whined, rocking against his hand. "Want you. Please, John."

John's throat was thick and tight with desperate desire, wanting this and so much else, and the cloud of pheromones practically radiating off of Sherlock in hot waves were doing nothing to help. "You cannot possibly make that decision now. If you wanted to take it back in a week and decided you didn't want it, I... I would be devastated. You can't do that to me, and I couldn't do that to you."

He shoved them at Sherlock's hand. "If you tell me after your heat you want the same, I swear to London you'll be pregnant by October."

Sherlock's lip quivered and he quieted, starting at the pills in his hand. On some level John knew that Sherlock understood what he was saying.  He made complete sense, but at the same time, his instincts urged him to throw the pills away and ask for what he was biologically geared to do.

"Okay. Fine," Sherlock spat, eyes watering. "I might hate you now."

He swallowed the pills.

John was immediately by his side. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he groaned, already hating himself for not giving in, not letting himself have the future he hasn't even known he could dream of, that he'd been so careful not to even want, because it could only end in heartbreak. He moved towards Sherlock like a downhill slide: something inevitable but steadfast, unhurried. He moved one of his hands to Sherlock's neck, and the other to catch some of the water collecting under Sherlock's eyes. "Know this:" John said, bringing his forehead flush with his friend's. "I will give you pups, we'll have a dozen if it pleases you, but I will never explain to my firstborn that he sprang out of a heat before I'd ever told his omega that I... that I love him."

He saw Sherlock's eyes widen in shock. _Didn’t expect that, did you?_ John felt the pull of Sherlock’s heart like an inevitable, inexorable thing. He was meant to hold onto Sherlock and love him— if they could remember after this heat.

Sherlock surged up and wrapped his arms around John, pressing their mouths together with a keen desperation. He all but missed his mouth, inelegant and far, far too gone. "Fuck me," he gasped. “Please."

John attached himself at Sherlock’s mouth, who was clumsy, almost scraping in his efforts to force the two together. Infused with a hazy heat, it still poured into John's insides like the mornings first hot cup of tea. He put both of his hands on Sherlock's face to hold him in places as he kissed him with the weight of his experience and passion, lipping at Sherlock's plush mouth until he was pliant and sighing like a content feline.

"Please," Sherlock repeated, gone glassy and wide-eyed, and John's cock jumped hard in his pants.

"Yes," John said, embarrassingly eager in his own ears, before embracing it. He peppered kisses to the crest of Sherlock's cheeks, his nose, eyebrows, between each word. "Yes please, may I yes yes, please."

With a loud whine, full of desperation, Sherlock attempted to wiggle closer to John and steal his heat, his love, while at the same time trying to turn his body around for John to fuck. He wanted to be owned and taken—to be bred. Almost having forgotten, Sherlock sobbed quietly and pressed himself hard against John. "Please. Please. Do it. I can't stand it. I’m on fire."

Sherlock turned in his grip, slippery and impatient, and John felt amused down to his fingertips, surging along his lust and want was delight: it was wonderful to feel like that, lightheaded with it. He'd shared heats before, but never with someone he'd wanted so keenly and for so long, never with someone he was desperately in love with. "I'll take the edge off," John promised, moving his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and tugging them slowly downward. "And then," he said, dipping low to kiss the newly visible skin at Sherlock's back as his trousers came down and his shirt tucked up, "I'm going to fuck you again. And then, after another ten or fifteen rounds, when you don't feel quite so desperate..."

John paused, grinning as he dragged his teeth along Sherlock's spine, hands still pulling at his trousers. "You can fuck me."

Sherlock shivered and clung to John’s shoulders like he was drowning. "God," he squeaked, wriggling as he arse clenched and squelched against nothing; his first orgasm, wringing him like a wet paper towel. "John yes John please. _John_." Sherlock’s arse was wet to his touch. His nerves, lighted by the heat, were probably going haywire at the mere brush of John's skin.

And the sight of Sherlock's orgasm -- the first he'd seen, the first of so so many -- would be imprinted in John’s memory forever. Even if he never got to have this again, he would remember it with a dry mouth for years to come. And John promised himself when he'd lessened Sherlock's urgency, he would give Sherlock's body the slow, heated exploration he deserved. He cupped Sherlock's delicate omega prick and he pulled his trousers down, briefly taking his hands off of Sherlock to shuck his own trousers. He'd shed his belt on the way up to their flat.

Now, he wrestled Sherlock out of his shirt with one hand, until the only stitch of clothing between them were their pants, and Sherlock's had already been pushed aside. He let out a low, heady groan.

Sherlock sobbed under him, wringing his hands in John's shirt. How good it felt to be touched was almost more than enough for Sherlock, who had come already. But this was the never-ending battle of heat, where he was slave to everything but his mind, already rotting on the inside. "Fuck, fuck. John. Fucking hurts—" he displayed himself, spreading legs in a desperate invitation.

John could already feel the pressure behind his eyes. Sherlock on his bed, wringing John's empty shirt, sobbing with need and heat... As pants became a thing of the past, John took a hold of Sherlock’s thighs and tested the water by burying a few fingers into Sherlock. He shouted, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of John’s forearm.

Deciding that he had been teased enough, John tended to his own great need and eased the blunt head of himself into Sherlock with little resistance. He scraped his fingernails gently against Sherlock's shoulder blades, hissing in relief as he became completely seated against his best friend.

Sherlock shouted as his body twitched with the new weight settling against him. He had no better way to show his appreciation, and vocalized everything he was feeling. "Good! Fuck...John, you feel amazing. Ah." it could feel this good. He curled on himself, shaking. "I can't...can't. John."

"What can't you do?" John rasped, his voice thick with the thrashing pleasure of it all. He gave Sherlock several long, deep thrusts, keeping metronome-precise time, impaling Sherlock on the thick, rigid heat of an erection too-long neglected. With his hands he reached down and spread Sherlock knees, pushing them further from his torso so he was the most obscene obtuse angle John had ever seen. After a few moments, during which John felt keenly the fluttering of Sherlock's insides, he had Sherlock turned and supporting himself so that his small cock almost, but not quite, touching the mattress.

John backed up to thrust so hard and deep that he felt Sherlock briefly lose his balance, and John reached one hand around his hip to touch the spot on one inner thigh where he could feel the hard, tense bulge of the ligament tissue at the crease of his groin. Upon inspection John could feel his tiny, omegan cock throb to a frantic pulse. He stayed there for a moment, testing his extreme self control, and then abruptly gave in and began again.

Sherlock, on his part, was reduced to a series of grunts, growing louder every time John was sure that he must be close to orgasm. He couldn’t stop making loud noises, doing his best to show John that he loved what was happening to him. With each delicious slide of John's cock into his arse, Sherlock clenched tighter and tighter, wanting to hold him there forever. "Please!" He sobbed, utterly wrecked. "Oh God please." John. John.

“Yes, yes,” John chanted, a precious prayer against Sherlock’s skin. _Always, yes._

"Tell me what it feels like," Sherlock gasped, needing to hear it, to know John was as broken as he was.

John let out a rumbling laugh, pausing briefly to rub the tip of his nose back and forth over the ridge of Sherlock's spine, between his shoulder blades, before he resumed rocking into Sherlock, feeling Sherlock's legs trembling like the quiver of a rubber band pulled to the very extremes of its tension limit. He pressed in and in and in, pleasure building low in his stomach tingling at the base of his skull. "You are," John moaned, haltingly, and Sherlock's muscles had him enveloped so hot John was surprised he'd lasted so long. The knot at the base of his cock was ballooning as he spoke, adding a new delicious tension and drag to each of John's movements. "So lovely. So gorgeous." John thrust again, and again, hot and powerful, like he'd been plugged in to the current of the Thames and inexhaustible. "I'm going to fill you with so many pups and they're going to be so spoiled."

"Oh God." Sherlock was out of breath, his words coming out a mere breath, a gasp. At the mention of pups, his body locked and he shouted his way through a second orgasm. “Yes John, yes. My alpha. My— mine.”

"I want to be," he crooned. "You'll be my biggest pup. Going to take care of you." John was getting incoherent, now: "I want to spoil you. You're never going to, never going to want... Love you..." He stilled as Sherlock's second orgasm triggered his knot, reaching around to cup Sherlock's still trembling prick in his hand with a dull, steady pressure, and kissed his shoulder through the aftershocks as his knot swelled so enormous, it couldn't possibly fit in the tight heat of Sherlock. John bit his own tongue in an effort to gain some semblance of rational thought as he was knotted to Sherlock—his best friend— and reached around to cup the curve of Sherlock's chest with his other hand, feeling the thrum of Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and fascinated, like he couldn't handle the input. "Can't," he whined when John touched his cock. "I can't. You're too big; it hurts." But his hips moved on their own, jerking and grinding him down on the protrusion.

John wrapped both arms around Sherlock and, still joined at the hips, he maneuvered them to lie on their sides on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock whimpered, and John shushed him.

"Won't hurt much longer," he assured him, brain gone blank and dumb with pleasure as he kissed the back of Sherlock's fluffy head, nuzzled into his neck. He hooked his top leg around Sherlock's hip, rocking gently. "I've got you," he said, dragging his lips down the column of his neck, and then back up before blowing a long breath across the wetness, raising goosebumps as he went. “I’ve got you. Always.”

Sherlock shook, short of breath, until he had got used to the intensity of the knot. He came again when John pressed up against him, fingernails digging bruises into John’s thigh.

He blinked into a different state of consciousness what felt like _hours_ later. How long had they been sitting there, John's lips against his head? He turned, meeting John’s nervous gaze.

"I— I've never been knotted before," he breathed, turning his head back to the wall, embarrassed. John felt his breath leave him in a rush as all the blood rushed to his cock. "I admit that I may have reacted rather strongly."

Sherlock was fiddling with his fingers, picking at his nails, and John found it adorable. He dragged his lips along the smooth line of his throat, nibbling as he went. “You were gorgeous. So good. My perfect—” he stopped himself, almost having uttered the words _my_ and _omega_ in the same sentence.

Sherlock picked up John’s hand, inspecting it before he answered. “I meant what I said.” His voice, while quiet, was the only sound in the room. John asked him to repeat it anyway. “I _said_ , I meant what I said. If you would be amiable, I wouldn’t mind you referring to yourself as mine.” He suddenly laughed. “For God’s sake we’re already knotted!”

“So, what, we skipped a few steps? I like where we are, if it got me this. Even if you might change your mind in the morning. I won’t change how I feel.” John pressed his hand over Sherlock’s heart, feeling the steady, gentle beat. “I’ll still love you.”

There was an awkward pause where Sherlock, in heat and knotted to John, didn’t know how to respond. This wasn’t unfamiliar to John, who recognized that Sherlock wasn’t going to suddenly fall in love with him because he was a good fuck.“Stop thinking. Sorry, I shouldn’t have— don’t worry about it.” He kissed just below his ear. “I will take whatever you give me. Keep whatever you’re thinking to yourself. I’m good with this.” He felt Sherlock relax, his heartbeat slowing from its rabbit’s pulse.

“Good. Because...because I need you, John. I need you for more than this.” Sherlock, perhaps testing out his newfound feelings, threaded his fingers through John’s. “You’re different. You’re more than I could have hoped for. So you have to stay. Be mine.”

“I will,” John whispered into his skin. “I absolutely will.” Really, the only thing that was missing between them before was a bite. And that could only be done when knotted together, in perfect harmony. John nosed along Sherlock’s throat, feeling his pulse flutter against his lips. “You’re gorgeous. So good.” John scraped his teeth along the edge he wanted to bite. He wouldn’t do it just yet… but later. When Sherlock was more coherent, but definitely by the end of the heat if he wanted. They had all night. And the next, and probably the next.

**_Months later_ **

_October. SH_

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally an rp between kenopsia and I, and we did our best to translate it into fic. I'm very eager to know how we did!


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